Has my prediction come true? Is Trump truly flipping out?

Is Trump on the verge of a bipolar meltdown?

Tonight I’m feeling smug and self-satisfied because my recent prediction may be coming to pass even sooner and more spectacularly than I thought it would: Trump may be spiraling straight into mania right before our eyes. The Albany Times Union printed the following Op Ed on Monday, though I actually wrote it ten days ago. I’m using my original Word document since it will be easier to format for my blog. Just now, for the first time, I compared my version word-by-word to theirs, confirming what I already thought: they didn’t edit or change a single word. (They did change one punctuation mark; see below.)

So much has happened since I wrote this Viewpoint article that I can’t begin to recap it here. But I do want to credit the TU for the caption they ran under Trump’s photo: “Does a suitable diagnosis for Trump exist?” Offhand, I can come up with several. Stay tuned by subscribing to my blog so you won’t miss anything.


I’ll never forget the full-blown episode of mania that earned me the official diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I’d been sleepless for days, and it culminated in a call to the New York Times at three in the morning. Reading about Donald Trump’s recent flurry of ill-considered tweets about the former Miss Universe brought back vivid memories, and I can’t help wondering if he’ll soon earn the same label.

My own diagnosis came when I was in my fifties. The average age of onset for bipolar disorder is around age 25, so I was a late bloomer. But research reveals that the first episode can strike at any age, and it’s more common in middle and even old age than is generally realized. According to Dr. Robert C. Young, a professor of psychiatry at Weill Medical College of Cornell University and attending physician in psychiatry at New York Presbyterian Hospital, psychiatrists even have a name for it: “Geri-BD.”

I’ve been watching Trump’s performance with growing disbelief. Like many media pundits, I labelled him with narcissistic personality disorder. My well-worn copy of the DSM-IV, the ultimate authority on mental disorders, shows that he’s literally a textbook example. But he could be bipolar as well—the two aren’t mutually exclusive.*

During manic episodes, people typically experience high energy levels. They talk more, interrupt people, make decisions in a flash and feel less need for sleep. Along with confidence and the feeling that they can do anything, there is often irritable, angry and impatient behavior. They may say and do outrageous things and take ever increasing risks.

A first manic episode can be precipitated by an unusually high level of stress. That was certainly true for me. As founder and president of a licensed home care agency in Ulster County, I was on call 24/7, constantly worried about whether we’d meet the payroll, frequently filling in for no-show aides. A shrink prescribed an antidepressant, and soon I was feeling better—miraculously better, in fact.

I grew more and more manic. The climax came when I locked myself in my office, threatening to call the police if anyone tried to get in. At about three, I called the New York Times and managed to reach a reporter working the night shift. I told him I had an urgent story about my father, who had been Managing Editor of the Milwaukee Journal during the McCarthy era and who had died 20 years before. I demanded that the Times run a front page story about him immediately. The reporter diplomatically suggested that the story didn’t sound quite right for the Times, but that I might want to call the Journal because of the local interest angle.

Eventually my husband coaxed me out of the office and got me to my shrink, who prescribed some heavy-duty sedatives to bring me down. I spent the next few days on the living room couch, watching video movies in a semi-stupor, and since then I’ve been more or less stable with carefully calibrated medication.

No one but my husband and my shrink knew how thoroughly off the wall I was, how close to a devastating crash. As my mania built, I churned out endless pages of prose on my computer, but this was before the advent of the Internet and social media. Had I been able to email and Tweet my crazy thoughts and theories to the world, I know I would have done so with uninhibited glee.

So as much as I detest Trump, I can empathize with his increasingly unhinged behavior. Time—and I’m talking days, weeks at most—will tell if I’m right. Remember, you read it here first.


*The last sentence in the fifth paragraph contains the only edit the TU made to my article—they changed the em dash to a semicolon. They kept my other dashes, though. As a writer of fiction and poetry, I rarely use semicolons; however, I suppose I could make an occasional exception.

COMING SOON: my memories of sexual assault back in my single days.

Trump: Headed for bipolar meltdown?

trump-new-yorker-cover-10_10_16-400I’m thrilled that the Times Union in Albany ran my opinion piece on Donald Trump in today’s paper. When I wrote last week that I thought he might be heading for a bipolar diagnosis, I knew I was going out on a limb, but the events of the past few days have made me more certain than ever that I may very well be right.

If you haven’t read it yet, here’s the link to the article:


Trump’s obsessive tweeting in the wee hours of the morning about the former Miss Universe and her weight issues was what first got me pondering a possible diagnosis of bipolar disorder, because the behavior reminded me so much of my own escalation into a first full-blown episode of mania a couple of decades ago. I won’t rehash the article here, though I’ll post it in full a couple of days from now.

I missed last graham-nash-2015night’s Trump vs. Clinton debate, because I was busy ushering for a marvelous concert by Graham Nash—of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young fame—at the Troy Savings Bank Music Hall. It was a far more inspiring and uplifting way to spend a couple of hours, to be sure, but once I came home and heard my husband’s descriptions of the debate, then went to the Internet and watched some clips, I learned all about the thuggish stalking behavior Trump exhibited while Hillary was speaking, behavior many have described as frighteningly offensive.

Before becoming founder and President of ElderSource, Inc., the Licensed Home Care Services Agency I described in my article, I worked for 13 years as a creative arts therapist at Hudson River Psychiatric Center in Poughkeepsie, a state mental hospital of the old-school variety that have long since been closed by supposedly well-meaning bureaucrats. There I worked on locked admissions wards as well as wards for the most seriously disturbed and often violent patients—the kinds of patients who are now more likely to be housed in prisons.

Among them were many who were diagnosed bipolar. They weren’t locked up because of their often fascinating delusions and grandiosity, but because psychiatrists had determined that they were a danger to themselves or others. In other words, they were either suicidal or violent. I’ll force myself to watch the debate in its entirety later tonight, but Trump’s body language, and especially his pacing around the confined space like a caged predator in a zoo, looming threateningly close to Clinton, suggests a psychological and physical state dangerously close to the edge. I can only hope he has his total meltdown before election day, and before his verbal  threats escalate to physical violence.

trump-cartoonThere’s much more I could say on this topic, but for now I’ll take a break to address my readers, both new and old. The Times Union published the link for this blog, so I’m hoping that will lure people who may not have visited before. If you’re a newbie, please click on the link in the column to the right and subscribe to my blog so that you’ll be notified of new posts. I promise you won’t be deluged with emails, because I post a maximum of two or three times a week.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000038_00071]In that same column, you’ll find a list of categories. Click on Bipolar Mood Swings, and you’ll find lots of posts that touch on bipolar disorder, in both its manic and depressive aspects. And check out my novel Mood Swing: The Bipolar Murders, which is inspired by my own experiences with bipolar disorder, as a professional, an advocate and a consumer.

Lastly, please leave comments and spread the news about this blog to your friends. Thanks!

Donald Trump or Joe McCarthy–Who’s worse?

McCarthy Laughing by Yale Joel

Senator Joe McCarthy (photo by Yael Joel)

Growing up in Milwaukee in the 1950’s, I was acutely aware of Senator Joe McCarthy and his pernicious witch hunt for alleged communists. He wreaked enormous damage and ruined numerous lives before he was brought down, but it’s nothing compared to what Donald Trump could do—indeed, what he’s already done—to damage our country.

I was especially tuned in to McCarthy’s doings because my father, Wallace “Chink” Lomoe, was Managing Editor of the Milwaukee Journal, then a nationally respected liberal newspaper, which offered up-close investigative journalism throughout the McCarthy era.

Back then, at the height of the cold war, Communism, and Russia in particular, struck terror into the heart of Americans, and rightly so. Less than ten years after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, worldwide nuclear annihilation was a genuine threat, and I never expected to live long enough to turn 21.

Trump smiling

Donald Trump

Fast forward sixty-odd years to today’s surrealistic political scene, where Donald Trump openly kisses Vladimir Putin’s ass and encourages Russia to hack into American computers to uncover classified information. He’s far crazier, far more dangerous than McCarthy ever was, and as the Republican nominee for President, he’ll soon have access to classified information.

I could ramble on and on, but plenty of media pundits are already doing that, so instead, I’ll offer up the following poem, which I wrote in 2010. At the very least, it should offer you a few minutes of diversion.

My Mother and Senator Joe

My mother stands in the kitchen,

hands busy at the red Formica countertop

with cratered moon design, assembling a tuna casserole,

one of her six recycled recipes unchanged since World War II.

Eager for tales from the trenches of the Journal newsroom,

we await my father’s coming. Once a promising reporter,

now the Managing Editor’s stay-home wife, my mother

plays out the Fifties dream of suburban bliss.


Daddy’s finally here. He mixes double dry martinis,

regales us with stories of his day. Senator Joe stopped by,

forgot his briefcase in my father’s corner office,

returned in panic to reclaim it. Daddy had been too ethical

to sneak a peek at those fabled lists of Communists,

or maybe he just ran out of time.


Later that spring, my mother and I ride the open tramway

deep in a subterranean tunnel beneath our nation’s capital,

sightseeing in sooty claustrophobic blackness

while far above us, cherry blossoms blaze in April sun

and Daddy hobnobs with his fellow editors in smoky hotel suites.

The roofless tram cars ferry politicians to and fro

shielded from public scrutiny on their appointed rounds,

like miners seeking coal.


The tram’s deserted now, except for Mom and me

and a smarmy thickset man with blackish bristles on his sagging jaw.

“What a pretty little girl,” he says, and smirks. My mother, ever gracious,

public smile fixed in place, exchanges pleasantries as the tram chugs onward

through the filthy darkness of the tunnel. At last we disembark

and go our separate ways. “Who was that nice man?” I ask. Her features morph

to a Medusa mask of  frightening fury.

“Don’t you ever call him a nice man again,” she snarls.

“That was Joe McCarthy.”


Later that night, back in our hotel room, I watch in helpless disbelief.  

She’s huddled on the carpet, head against the bed,

wracked by wrenching sobs. As in the blackened tunnel, once again

I’ve glimpsed a woman whose moods I scarcely know.

My childhood sense of safety teeters and cracks. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

She forces a teary smile. “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Don’t worry. I can’t imagine

what came over me.”

Subway Capitol system vintage

The Capitol subway in an undated vintage photo*

When I began this blog, I never intended to veer into politics, but this year I can’t seem to help it. Along with my ambitions as a writer, I seem to have inherited my parents’ political genes. As always, I’d love to hear your comments. Subscribe and stay tuned.

*I’m borrowing the McCarthy photo from the LIFE magazine collection, and the Getty credit seems appropriate. My father hired Edward K. Thompson, who later became LIFE’s Managing and then Executive Editor for many years and remained a close family friend.

*This vintage photo of the Capitol subway is much as I remember it from the early 1950’s. It still exists today in a much updated version, with three branches connecting the Capitol, house and senate buildings. Security is tight, and visitors are allowed only with close supervision.

Is Hillary too smart for her own good? Here are my thoughts, hot off the press from yesterday’s Times Union.

I wrote this piece for the Albany Times Union, and they published it yesterday!

Poor Hillary. Despite her outstanding qualifications, multiple polls show that a majority of Americans just plain don’t like her. But what’s not to like? I’ve seen and heard her multiple times, in person and on TV. In debates, she’s far more articulate and better informed than her rivals, and on the late night talk shows, she’s warm and funny. On Saturday Night Live, she was hilarious as a bartender bantering with Kate McKinnon’s “Hillary” character. Her close friends reportedly find her delightful.

Hillary & Kate McKinnon SNL

Hillary Clinton as bartender to Kate McKinnon’s “Hillary” on Saturday Night Live

So why don’t people like her? They come up with lots of reasons, but I believe the answer is simple: she’s just too damn smart. We don’t hear that explanation much, because most Americans don’t like to admit someone else is more intelligent than they are, especially if that someone is a woman. And the media pundits, especially those charged with filling the gaping maw of the 24/7 news cycle on TV and online don’t dare focus on this possibility, because it would mean acknowledging that some of us simply aren’t that bright. Highlighting the issue of intelligence might alienate the millions of viewers who prefer their news parceled out in easily digestible, endlessly repeated sound bites, and ratings might go down.

KISS cat

The KISS principle—keep it simple, stupid—applies to this campaign in spades. Coined in 1960 by an engineer at Lockheed, which manufactured spy planes for the Navy, the phrase originally applied to design but was broadened to the fields of marketing and sales, where it is also phrased as “Keep it simple and straightforward.” It doesn’t necessarily mean the target audience is stupid; rather, it suggests, that as Steve Jobs said when explaining the success of Apple products, “It all comes down to this: Let’s make it simple. Really simple.”

This is the crux of Hillary’s problem: she explains too much, delves into issues with such depth that she sometimes goes over the heads of people who aren’t policy wonks, thereby coming across as cold and intimidating, like that high school teacher or college professor who never cut you any slack and never gave you an A.

In contrast, consider the macho blowhards on the right and left wings of their parties. “Build the wall!” shouts Donald. “Down with Wall Street! Break up the banks!” rants Bernie. They hammer home the same talking points over and over again, painting themselves as anti-establishment outsiders, striking a strident but rousing chord with millions of disenchanted voters.

Trump hails from Queens and holds a B.A. from Wharton; Sanders grew up in Brooklyn and has a B.A. from the University of Chicago, where he’s said he was a mediocre student. They’re tough guys from the outer boroughs of New York City, and their political styles show it. Clinton, in contrast, is a high-achieving Ivy Leaguer, who got her B.A. from Wellesley and her law degree from Yale. Those exalted Ivies confer a status that can give you entrée into the corridors of power, but that very status can work against you, as I can attest. (I attended Radcliffe, Barnard and Columbia.)

Library University Club

When I was a child, being called a “brain” was an insult. That changed when I got to college.  But out in the wide world, I learned once again to play down my intelligence. Despite the supposed advances of feminism, women who come across as too smart are often resented, even hated, especially if they’re bold and assertive. That’s a societal prejudice Hillary will have to fight hard to overcome.

Julie Lomoe is a novelist who lives in Wynantskill. 

I’m pleased to say the Times Union didn’t change a word, other than adding the candidates’ last names. I took care to stay within their 600-word limit and did a careful editing job before sending it off, so this lends support to my claim that I’m my own best editor. I’ve already received lots of positive feedback.

I’m hoping the article will inspire new readers to discover my blog. If you’re one of them, welcome! Please subscribe so you’ll receive notification of new blog posts, and please explore this site for other topics of interest—especially my three published novels, which you can purchase from Amazon in paperback and Kindle formats.

I’d love to read your comments! Let’s start a dialogue about this all-important election.

Block Busting in the merry month of May

woman flaming typewriter cartoon

It’s just over a month till my workshop at the East Greenbush Library on June 4th. Here’s the description I sent for their newsletter:




Writer’s block afflicts every author sooner or later. If you’ve ever found yourself paralyzed, staring at an empty piece of paper or a blank computer screen, you know the feelings of frustration and even downright panic that can keep you from writing. In this workshop for writers or would-be writers of all levels, we’ll explore the underlying feelings behind your personal blocks and learn a variety of techniques to help you overcome the barriers that keep you from reaching your fullest potential as a writer.

Julie Lomoe is a novelist and poet with over three decades of experience as a creative arts therapist and workshop leader. This workshop will use creative visualization and writing exercises along with a discussion of successful writers’ tips and techniques for overcoming creative blocks. Free handouts will include a tip sheet and bibliography. 

June 4th feels like a particularly auspicious day, because it’s my mother’s birthday. She died in 1970 of complications from a fall in the house she and my father were renting in Sarasota, Florida, to escape the frigid Wisconsin winters. She was only 61—an age that feels absurdly young to me now—and as a pre-feminist wife and mother, she never reached her full potential. But that’s a story for another time. June 4th is also the birthday of Gloria Tropp, the brilliant singer, poet and artist who was my best friend and matron of honor at my wedding to Robb Smith in 1975 when we lived in New York City, but Gloria deserves a blog post of her own.

So as the birthday of two strong, creative women who played such a significant role in my life,  June 4th is a special day, and I want to do them justice. But I have to admit that since I blogged about this workshop on March 21st, the first day of spring, I haven’t made much progress. Back then I wrote about how fear and habit are my major blocks to writing, and I described a typically pedestrian day in my life and all the distractions and feeble excuses that keep me from writing.

Cherry blossom tunnel, Sakuru, Japan

Cherry blossom tunnel, Sakuru, Japan

But May feels like the true beginning of spring, especially since my garden has finally been blessed with some truly drenching rain, and everything is greening up nicely. A good time for goal setting, and I’ve resolved to write at least 600 words a day, each and every day. Any and all forms of writing will count, including journaling, which I find a wonderful way of getting my creative juices flowing. Last night I churned out nearly a thousand words in half an hour, a relative breeze when I’m blathering away with no literary critic whispering nasty messages inside my head, telling me how inadequate I am as a writer.

The sheer physical act of typing has the power to awaken muscle memories that go deep underground and dormant when I’m not using them regularly, but I feel the energy seeping back into my mind and body even as I write these words. But distractions are creeping in—the sound of my cat Lunesta, her amazingly accurate inner clock kicking in as she scratches at my office door, reminding me it’s six o’clock and high time for dinner, my husband tempting me to abandon my writing with the offer of a roast beef sandwich. My own inner clock telling me it’s time for a glass of wine. But for May I’ve committed to abstaining from booze until I’ve reached my daily quota of 600 words. And now, by golly, I’ve done it. This blog post now contains 637 words, so I can legitimately sign off and indulge myself.

I welcome your thoughts and suggestions on creative block busting – either as comments or perhaps in an entire guest blog post. Please let me know if you’re interested!

Lunesta on printer 7-27-14

Hope Dawns Eternal makes The New York Times!

I’ve always been in awe of The New York Times, so it was thrilling to be interviewed by a Times reporter last Tuesday on New York’s primary day, and even more thrilling to find myself quoted in the next morning’s edition, and to discover that the reporter, Jesse McKinley, topped off his story with the title of my vampire soap opera novel, Hope Dawns Eternal. Here’s the poem I wrote to commemorate the occasion.

Hope Dawns in a Grungy Gun Club

Hope Dawns Eternal!

The New York Times, that great gray lady, gave me the last words

In the story “Voting at a Gun Club,”

Filed before the presidential primary was even over.

Inside, I’d traipsed the length of the grubby gray cinder-block building

At the Bailey Mountain Fish and Game Club,

Passed the yellowed illustrations of assorted guns,

Taped to the cheap pine paneled walls.

Passed the mounted deer heads, the sample ballots on collapsible tables,

Faced the row of portly aging men

Who smirked as I declared my party and signed the Democratic ledger.

They told me to remove the Women for Hillary button

Pinned to my dusty rose Old Navy fleece—no electioneering allowed

In this Inner Sanctum of democracy.

I blackened my chosen circles, fed my ballot into

The silvery maw of the machine,

Nostalgic for the heavy curtains, the leaden click of levers

Pushed down to reveal the red x’s of my choice.


When it was over, out in the sunlit clearing in the woods,

A blond young man in casual sports attire, reporter’s pad in hand,

Approached and asked if I could spare the time to talk.

Over his shoulder, a photographer snapped away

As I stumbled over half-baked opinions,

While my inner critic cursed my lack of originality,

Stringy hair and nearly nonexistent makeup.


When the questions wound down, I asked what paper he was with,

Thinking Schenectady or maybe Troy.

The New York Times, he said, in a near-apologetic mumble

Like the one I use when I say I’ve gone to Harvard and Columbia.

I told him of my father, managing editor of The Milwaukee Journal

Back in the fifties heyday of McCarthyism. He was suitably impressed.

Almost as an afterthought, I told him I was a novelist,

Rummaged in my purse, handed him a postcard for Hope Dawns Eternal,

My vampire soap opera novel.


That night I binged on TV primary returns, rejoiced for Hillary.

Woke Wednesday morning, guardedly hopeful,

But dubious I’d made the cut. He’d no doubt talked to lots of people,

And I’d said nothing especially quote-worthy,

Let alone worthy of The New York Times.

My ever tech-savvy husband grabbed his cell,

Googled my name and news, and said, “You made it.”

I commandeered the phone, scrolled down,

And there I was at the very end of the article,

Sounding surprisingly articulate.

When I reached the last lines, I shrieked:

“An amateur novelist, she pressed a pamphlet

For her vampire novel into a reporter’s hand.

Its title: Hope Dawns Eternal.”


He chose it as a closing metaphor, I’m sure,

But to me, such synchronicity feels like a blessing.

I’m not big on higher powers,

But maybe something somewhere is looking out for me

And success is in the stars.

Of course I’ll have to work my butt off,

But I can legitimately say,

“As featured in The New York Times.”

My parents, with their lost, unpublished novels,

Would be proud.

I premiered the poem yesterday at my women writers group and last night at POETS SPEAK LOUD, a monthly open mic at McGeary’s Tavern in Albany, where I was featured poet. I got a warm reception both times, and I hope you’ll enjoy it too, regardless of your political persuasion.

Here’s a direct link to the New York Times article:



Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000038_00069]

Michael Easton’s mysterious doctor Hamilton Finn

Michael Easton as Finn shooting up 4-8-16

Michael Easton as Hannibal Finn

It’s been two weeks since Michael Easton returned to General Hospital as the mysterious doctor Hamilton Finn—three episodes per week, for a grand total of six, and in half of them he’s been shown shooting up with some mysterious substance from a gigantic syringe. We don’t yet know the contents, but the phases he goes through from craving to semi-stoned satisfaction give him a wonderful opportunity to show off his acting chops, something he couldn’t do as the tightly controlled John McBain and Silas Clay.

Like most fans, I don’t believe he’s shooting up an illicit drug, at least not of the opioid variety, but it could well be something experimental he brought back from his travels in Australia and heaven knows where else, perhaps something derived from his “service lizard,” the bearded dragon Roxy that he’s keeping caged at the Metrocourt hotel.* He’s probably self-medicating in hopes of curing some exotic, potentially fatal disease.


Finn with his “service lizard,” the bearded dragon Roxy.

Fans are loving this latest reincarnation of Michael’s. He’s edgy, temperamental, quick to anger, with a sardonic sense of humor. Friday’s scene, when he was cajoling and shouting at Tracy to wake up following her brain surgery, was marvelous—she may have been near-comatose, virtually at death’s door, but how could she resist such a gorgeous doctor luring her back to life?

For me, this is by far the most fascinating character Michael has played since the late lamented vampire Caleb Morley on Port Charles. He’s already inspiring me to plunge back into Sunlight and Shadow, the sequel to my vampire soap opera novel Hope Dawns Eternal. My enthusiasm had flagged since they killed off Silas Clay last July 31st, which happened to be my birthday. But I’m eager to get back into the adventures of my Jonah McQuarry character, who’s just beginning to embrace his true identity as a vampire, and his lady love Abigail Hastings, who’s hiding more secrets than he can possibly imagine.

What are your theories about Dr. Hannibal Finn? Who is he, really? Why does he want to stay in Port Charles, and what characters will he become involved with? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if through his “service lizard,” he’s seeking a magical elixir that will give him eternal life? Then he’d be sure to stick around awhile.

Michael Easton as Finn brooding 4-8-16

*Thanks to Alison Armstrong for researching bearded dragons and posting an article from an Australian museum that states: “Recent research has indicated that Bearded Dragons possess primitive venom glands, the use of venom in dragon lizards is not yet understood, however a bite from this species should pose no long-term ill effect. The bite site should be cleaned with a mild disinfectant, as with any animal bite.” They rarely bite, however, but they do puff up their bodies, including the “beards” under their jaws, to appear more formidable to potential aggressors.

Please visit me at http://www.Amazon.com. Just type Julie Lomoe into the search box and all three of my books will come up: Hope Dawns Eternal, Mood Swing: The Bipolar Murders, and Eldercide. I could really use some sales!

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